


every election is determined by the people who show up

by suzukiblu



Category: Leverage
Genre: American Politics, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, References to racism, references to real world events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27636311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: “Let’s go steal a country.”“What, again?”
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 23
Kudos: 326





	every election is determined by the people who show up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss_Bubblegum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Bubblegum/gifts).



> Written for Miss_Bubblegum, who wanted the Leverage OT3 taking down the orange menace, a.k.a. Trump. I have not quiiiiite finished watching Leverage despite the fact that I own the box set and it is literally within arm’s reach of me as I type this, and this is also my first crack at proper fic for it, so please forgive any errors. Also, like . . . I’m only so good at politics, guys, all I really know how to do is to show up and vote (and occasionally donate some places).

“Let’s go steal a country.” 

“What, again?” 

.

.

.

“Voter suppression is at an all-time high,” Parker informs Hardison, hanging off his shoulder as he frowns down at the pan of mysterious contents that he’s currently stirring on the stove. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “You wanna talk gerrymandering? Because we could talk gerrymandering. Or felons. We could _definitely_ talk felons.” 

“We do know a lot of felons,” she says musingly, then sneaks a peek at the pan's contents. “. . . what is that?” 

“A mistake,” Hardison says glumly, poking said contents with the spoon. “Think if I throw it out before Eliot gets back we can order pizza and pretend it never happened?” 

“I think he’ll smell it,” Parker says, still eyeing the pan skeptically. 

“Extra garlic on the pizza it is,” Hardison says. 

.

.

.

"What's that smell?" Eliot says. 

"Eat your pizza," Hardison says. 

"Voter suppression is at an all-time high," Parker informs Eliot, dropping onto the couch between them and settling in comfortably. They left the perfect amount of room for her, but they always do. 

"When is it not?" he asks. " _Where_ is it not?" 

"Hm," she says, looking speculative. 

"Parker, we have limited resources here," Hardison says. "Let's just focus on the immediate crisis." 

"I have some thoughts about the electoral college," Parker says. 

"Like about it, or about _doing_ something to it?" Eliot asks skeptically. 

"Yes." 

"We can talk about that," Hardison says, reaching for his laptop. 

"I don't think I'm going to be able to help much with that part," Eliot says. 

"There's some people involved who deserve punched," Parker says, leaning against Hardison to peer at his laptop screen. It's definitely showing something classified. "Although that probably won't fix the actual problem." 

"I mean, we could try," Hardison says. "We've had worse ideas." 

"We could," Parker muses. 

"I mean, if you want me to," Eliot says with a shrug. 

"It worked on the Nazi with the frog pin," Parker says reasonably. 

"I need to rewatch that clip," Hardison says. 

"So where do we start?" Eliot asks. 

"Maybe wait on the punching for now," Parker says speculatively. "Get some groundwork in first." 

"Any groundwork you want, babe," Hardison says. Parker hums to herself. 

"Let's make it embarrassing," she says decisively. "Embarrassing for _all_ of them. Even the frog Nazi. Actually especially the frog Nazi." 

"Not sure he's still around but I'm definitely willing to do it," Hardison says, eyes scanning the files on his laptop screen. "Maybe I'll send him some exciting magazine subscriptions just for the heck of it." 

"Seriously, though, what _is_ that smell?" Eliot says. 

"Just eat the damn pizza, Eliot." 

.

.

.

"So who actually wanted us to do this?" 

"The entire popular vote." 

"You know, fair enough." 

.

.

.

Hardison is wearing a campaign t-shirt. Eliot tilts his head. 

"Why?" he says. 

"Busy day ahead," Hardison says, then holds out another shirt towards him. "Also every little bit helps. Here's yours." 

"Was this your idea or Parker's?" Eliot says, eyeing the shirt dubiously. 

"Just take the damn shirt, man." 

Eliot sighs, but does. He strips off the shirt he was already wearing to replace it and Hardison makes an approving noise. Eliot shoots him a _look_. 

"What?" Hardison says, blinking innocently at him. Eliot rolls his eyes, then pulls on the campaign t-shirt and smooths it out. Hardison watches attentively. 

"So what's the plan?" Eliot says. 

"Phone bank," Hardison says. 

"What?" Eliot says. 

"We're volunteering at a phone bank," Hardison says. "Also we're stealing a lot of voter data, but that's mostly gonna be on me. You just need to be the distraction." 

"And why are we stealing voter data?" Eliot asks dubiously. 

"Because Parker wants it," Hardison says. 

"Ah," Eliot says. "So who am I distracting?" 

"The Democratic National Convention," Hardison says. 

"The— _how_ , Hardison?!" 

"Eh, you’re a resourceful guy. You'll figure it out." 

.

.

.

"Are you cooking again?" 

"Not if Eliot asks." 

.

.

.

"What is that _smell_?" 

.

.

.

Parker is cracking a safe over and over on the living room floor and Hardison is buried in his laptop on the couch; Eliot is making them both lunch because he's positive neither of them's eaten yet. They're both very obviously in work-mode, and Hardison is wearing a different campaign t-shirt. 

"Break time," Eliot says, bringing a plate for each of them into the room. 

"Ooo," Hardison says as they both visibly perk up. Eliot puts one plate on top of the safe in front of Parker and the other on the coffee table in front of Hardison, and they both immediately go for them. They definitely haven't eaten yet. 

"Did you two even have breakfast?" Eliot says. 

"Mmph," Parker says, mouth already full. 

"There were Pop-Tarts in the pantry," Hardison says. Eliot takes a steadying breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"That's not food, Hardison," he says. Hardison looks unrepentant. 

"They were strawberry," he says. "So basically fruit." 

_"Hardison."_

"They were good," Parker says helpfully. Eliot gives Hardison an accusing look; Hardison shrugs. "Are you ready for tonight?" 

"Ready when you two are," Eliot says. 

"It'll be fun!" Parker says, patting the safe and grinning widely. 

"Any kind of fun you want, darlin'," Eliot says. 

.

.

.

"That? Was _not_ fun!" 

.

.

.

"We have to go _what_?" Eliot demands. 

"Golfing," Hardison says. 

"The hell for?" 

"We're going on a scouting mission." 

"Through golf?!" 

"Golf courses are an environmental disaster," Parker interjects helpfully from the ceiling rafters, where she's messing with her rigging and harness. "All that grass. Bad for it. Worse than a lawn, and lawns are bad enough. Like a giant _evil_ lawn that wastes tons of water and only rich people get to walk on." 

"Yeah, lawns are shit," Hardison agrees. 

"I have no idea what we're talking about," Eliot says. "What the hell does this have to do with going on a scouting mission?" 

"You're going to have to wear disguises," Parker says. "Sorry." 

"We always wear disguises," Eliot says. 

"Yeah, but not golf disguises," Parker says sympathetically, unreeling her harness down to hang upside-down between them. Hardison presses a kiss to her cheek, and Eliot kisses the other. "Hmmm," she says, smiling widely. 

"Just tell me they're not pastel this time," Eliot says. 

"You want us to lie to you?" Hardison says. Eliot makes a face. "What do you have against pastels, man?" 

"Nothing," Eliot says. "You're just going to enjoy making me wear them too much." 

"Can't imagine where you'd get that impression," Hardison replies with perfect innocence. 

Eliot sighs. 

.

.

.

The con is not going well. 

“Down!” Eliot hisses as they duck behind a golf cart. 

“No shit, Eliot!” Hardison hisses back. The Secret Service and security both pass them by, mercifully, and they manage to sneak a bit closer towards the exit. They hide around the side of a building, backs pressed flat against the wall. 

“Fuck,” Eliot says, peering around the corner warily. 

“Clear?” Hardison says. 

“Not remotely.” 

“Fuck.” 

Eliot thumps his head back against the wall. Hardison grimaces. 

“This sucks,” Eliot says. 

“In my defense, they were racist pieces of shit,” Hardison says. 

“We’re on a golf course, Hardison!” Eliot says in exasperation. 

“I’m not saying I wasn’t _expecting_ it, they just actually genuinely were even worse than I expected,” Hardison says. “Like, impressively worse. I’m going to ruin all their email addresses.” 

“You could’ve just let me punch them,” Eliot says. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but that would’ve _really_ blown our cover,” Hardison says, leaning past him to peer around the corner too before leaning back with a curse. “Ugh. Why is the Secret Service so damn dogged?” 

“They’re the Secret Service, Hardison,” Eliot says. 

“Yeah, so?” Hardison says. “What, they actually wanna keep _this_ guy alive? The man charges them _rent_!” 

“Some people have a warped sense of duty,” Eliot says. 

“‘Warped’ is one word for it,” Hardison snorts. “They gone yet?” 

“I think so,” Eliot says. “No running. Walk like you belong here.” 

“I know how the hell to run away, Eliot,” Hardison says. “I’m not _new_.” 

“Shit,” Eliot says, immediately bristling as his eyes widen in alarm. “Someone’s coming. Look, just stand back and I’ll—” 

“I got it, man,” Hardison says, rolling his own eyes, then grabs the other and kisses him. Eliot makes a startled, muffled noise and lets him pin him to the wall out of surprise. Hardison kisses him deep and thorough, and Eliot grips the sleeve of his shirt tightly. Someone makes a startled noise of their own and hurries past without looking at them. 

Hardison keeps kissing Eliot, who tightens his grip on his sleeve until his knuckles whiten. 

“There we go,” Hardison says in satisfaction after another few moments. “And you didn’t even have to cold-cock a Secret Service agent.” 

“Nn,” Eliot says slightly distantly, blinking rapidly, then shakes his head and reorients to glower at him. “You are _so_ lucky that worked.” 

“Luck? That was all skill, baby,” Hardison says, pressing another quick kiss to his jaw before leaning back to grin at him. Eliot glowers at him again. 

“Maybe I _wanted_ to cold-cock a Secret Service agent,” he says. 

"We're shooting for hitting the neo-Nazis here, babe," Hardison says. "Let's focus on the neo-Nazis." 

.

.

.

"How was golf?" Parker asks, settling down on the couch between Hardison and Eliot. 

"Let's not talk about it," Eliot mutters, pressing the ice pack he's holding to his knee. 

"It went great," Hardison says. "I made it a whole five minutes before being mistaken for a caddy and no one wanted to social distance." 

"We kind of had to run for it," Eliot says. 

"Kind of?" Parker says. 

"Kind of a lot." 

"How was the break-in?" Hardison asks. 

"Mmm, boring," Parker sighs, resting her head on his shoulder and tucking her feet up on the couch. "I didn't have to run from anyone. Their security is kind of terrible, actually." 

"That's very comforting for national security," Hardison says wryly. 

"Makes our job easier, I guess," Parker says. 

"That's true," Hardison says. 

"Have you two eaten yet?" Eliot says, gingerly taking off the ice pack and eyeing his knee distrustfully. 

"There were Pop-Tarts in the pantry," Parker says. Eliot groans, setting the ice pack aside and pushing himself up off the couch. 

"You people would starve without me," he mutters. 

"Probably," Hardison says agreeably. "Your knee okay to be standing on, though?" 

"It's fine," Eliot says, then makes it all of two steps before said knee buckles and he catches himself on the coffee table. "Dammit!" 

"Yeah, I think it's Pop-Tarts for dinner, man." 

"Over my dead body." 

.

.

.

". . . are you cooking again?" 

"We've had this conversation." 

.

.

.

"What's that—" 

"Shhh." 

.

.

.

"I'm miserable," Parker announces as she walks into the apartment. Eliot looks up from the stove and Hardison looks up from his computer. 

"Miserable?" Eliot repeats. 

"What happened?" Hardison asks. 

"I had to talk to single-issue voters today," Parker says. 

"Ah," Eliot says with a grimace. "Guessing that didn't go too well?" 

"Couch," Parker demands. 

"Maybe give Eliot a minute to finish dinner," Hardison says, getting up from the armchair to move over. Parker throws herself down on the couch next to him with a huff. 

"People are _awful_ ," she says. 

"A fair chunk of 'em, yeah," Hardison agrees. He puts an arm over the back of the couch. Parker leans into him. 

"I don't understand how basic human empathy is so hard," she grumbles sourly. " _I_ figured it out." 

"Yeah, well, you actually try," Eliot says, putting a pan into the oven and then coming over to sit down with them. Parker kicks off her shoes and puts her feet in his lap, still looking sour. He strokes one of her calves and she softens slightly. 

"The trying is important," Hardison agrees. "Let's just take the rest of the night off, yeah? We don't have anything urgent to do tonight." 

"This job is exhausting," Parker mutters. 

"Yeah, kinda," Hardison says. He rubs her shoulder. She slumps heavier into his side, closing her eyes. 

"I'm tired," she sighs. 

"Then relax," Hardison says, still rubbing her shoulder. "Like I said, nothing we gotta do tonight." 

"Mm," she says. 

"Hardison's right," Eliot says. "Dinner'll be ready soon. We can watch a movie or something." 

"Just this is good," Parker says, settling in more comfortably against them. "It's nice to just be together for a while." 

"We can do that," Hardison says, and they do. 

.

.

.

“. . . so anyway I'm thinking you might need to cold-cock a Secret Service agent after all,” Hardison says over the comm link. “Possibly two.” 

“Dammit, Hardison! Could you have given me some damn _warning_ first?!” Eliot demands. 

“There’s kind of a lot of them around,” Parker says from the other end of the line. “Oh. Hm. Speaking of, give me a second.” 

“That’s slightly concerning, Parker,” Hardison says. There’s a muffled “thump”. 

“All good!” Parker says cheerfully. “Where’s Eliot?” 

“Suffering,” Eliot mutters darkly. “I didn’t actually _want_ to punch anybody Secret Service, you realize.” 

“Just consider it one more off the bucket list, man,” Hardison says. 

.

.

.

“. . . Parker, Eliot is not going to accept this as breakfast,” Hardison says, eyeing the Pop-Tarts she’s holding. 

“They’re on a nice plate, though!” she insists. “And I made enough for all of us!” 

“Yeah, we should hide those before he gets back from his run, actually,” Hardison says. Parker makes a face at him. 

“You keep trying to cook for him _too_ ,” she says accusingly. 

“Yes, and I know when to hide the results,” Hardison says, taking a Pop-Tart and taking a bite. “This? This is one of those times.” 

“Fine,” Parker says grumpily. “But I’m eating one first.” 

.

.

.

"How are there _still_ Pop-Tarts in the pantry?!" 

.

.

.

"Do you want to go to a protest?" Parker asks. 

"I have over-funded so many bail funds I cannot even tell you, Parker," Hardison says. He looks stressed. 

"So . . . no?" she guesses. 

"We've got work to do," he says. "Not the time to risk getting spotted in a crowd. Or be arrested." 

"Okay," she says, sneaking a peek at his computer screen. It's another bail fund. "Do you want some help with that? I have money, I mean. More money." 

". . . sure, Parker." 

.

.

.

Eliot is cleaning the kitchen, Hardison is watching him from the kitchen island with his laptop, and Parker's in the rafters with her harnesses again. There's a plan, of course, because there's always a plan, but right now they're just waiting. Can't always be "on", even in the middle of things. 

"We should go on a date," Hardison says. 

"Why?" Parker says. Hardison tips back in his chair and gives her a wry look. 

"Because I adore you both and we've been obsessing over this job for weeks," he says. "I'd like to see you outside of work again.” 

"You're seeing us right now," Parker says, clearly puzzled. 

"What kind of date?" Eliot says. 

"The kind with no other people around," Hardison says. "Like, not even a waiter." 

“Park?” Eliot suggests. “We could pack a lunch.” 

“The park doesn’t have wi-fi, though,” Parker says. 

“I’ll live,” Hardison says, closing his laptop. “What kind of lunch are we talking, Eliot?” 

“Not goddamn Pop-Tarts,” Eliot says. 

“You are really never letting that one go, are you.” 

.

.

.

They go to the park. It’s nice. Parker climbs a tree and they eat the lunch Eliot made and Hardison lays down in the sun and closes his eyes. 

It’s a good day. 

.

.

.

But they’ve still got work to do, of course. 

.

.

.

“What are you cooking this time?” Parker asks. 

“Failure, mostly,” Hardison says, dumping the still-steaming contents of the pot in his hands into the trash. “What’s the plan for tonight?” 

“We’re breaking into his house,” Parker says, peering into the trash can curiously. 

“. . . his house, or his _house_?” Hardison asks skeptically. 

Parker grins winningly at him. 

“Uh boy.” 

.

.

.

“I cannot believe you figured that out,” Hardison says. 

“It’s a very distinctive system,” Eliot says, shaking out his hands. 

.

.

.

“Are you ready?” Parker asks. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Eliot sighs. She laughs, then drops backwards off the roof. 

.

.

.

“There you are,” Parker says from the couch as they walk in the front door, and Hardison and Eliot drop down on either side of her, both looking exhausted. She leans against Eliot and puts her feet in Hardison’s lap. “That was a close one.” 

“Ugh,” Hardison says feelingly. 

“The skin of our teeth,” Eliot says equally feelingly. Parker hums to herself, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“Do you want me to make dinner tonight?” she asks. “I promise it won’t be Pop-Tarts.” 

“It’s okay,” Eliot says. “Just . . . maybe give me a minute here.” 

“That really was close, with the security guys,” she says. “And the ceiling. And the, uh . . . fall.” 

“Yeah, how’s your head?” Hardison says. 

“I’m having ibuprofen for dinner, personally,” Eliot says. The other two wince. 

“Seriously, we can order delivery or something,” Hardison says. 

“I don’t want to eat somebody else’s food right now,” Eliot says. 

“Okay, fair,” Hardison says, leaning over Parker to press a kiss to his cheek. Parker hums again. “I’ll grab the first aid kit, okay?” 

“. . . yeah, okay,” Eliot says. 

.

.

.

“This is taking _forever_ ,” Parker mutters, glaring sullenly at the ceiling. She’s draped over the couch, taking up everything except the arm Eliot’s sitting on. Hardison’s sitting on the floor with his laptop. 

“It’s not even election day yet, Parker,” Eliot says. 

“And unfortunately this is a little more complicated than the average con,” Hardison says. “Especially considering that you-know-who’s probably going to sue to get the votes recounted, and hell knows if he’ll manage it.” 

“It’s not even a con anymore!” Parker exclaims. “You’re wearing a campaign t-shirt!” 

“Yeah, we have a lot of those now,” Hardison says. “What are your current feelings on voter registration?” 

“I hate it,” Parker says. 

“Cool, because we need to do a lot of it,” Hardison says. “And fix a lot of purged ones while we’re at it.” 

“This is a very bad country,” Parker says. 

“Maybe, but there’s decent people in it,” Eliot says. “They’re just getting sabotaged at the voting booth. And on the ground. And . . . everywhere, pretty much.” 

“I want a new government,” Parker says grumpily, folding her arms. 

“Working on it, babe,” Hardison promises her. 

.

.

.

“So is it election day yet or what?” 

.

.

.

“This debate is a disaster,” Hardison says, eyeing the TV. 

“Maybe you should’ve hacked the feed after all,” Eliot says. 

“Still got time to do it,” Hardison says. 

“If he keeps talking I think I’m going to throw up,” Parker informs them, watching the screen intently from between them and making a face. “I’m going to go all the way to the White House and I’m going to throw up on _him_.” 

“The fucking thing’s still only half over,” Hardison groans, rubbing at his temples. 

“We could turn it off,” Eliot says. “Or cut the feed.” 

“Believe me, I’m considering it,” Hardison says. “Might just cut power to the whole building.” 

“I don’t think he’d notice,” Parker says. 

“Yeah, that’s . . . unfortunate,” Hardison says. “It’d spare the rest of the world, though.” 

“. . . maybe in another minute.” 

.

.

.

“I swear to God, if I have to watch one more of these rallies . . .” 

.

.

.

“Hold up, he actually _caught it_?!” Hardison demands incredulously. “He was actually that stupid?! In the middle of the damn _White House_?!” 

“Is it a bad thing that I feel good about this?” Parker wonders aloud. 

“This is karma, Parker,” Eliot says. “You feel however you want to feel about it.” 

“Okay,” she says. “I’m leaning ‘good’.” 

“Yeah, gotta say I’m on your side there,” Hardison agrees. 

.

.

.

"Oh my God, how many of them _have_ it?" 

“Karma is thriving.” 

.

.

.

"They should make him wait in a hallway for treatment," Hardison mutters. 

"That’d be nice," Parker says wistfully. 

.

.

.

“Is it election day yet?” 

.

.

.

“Are you cooking?” Eliot says in bemusement, and Hardison jerks guiltily, nearly dropping the pan in his hand. 

“What? No,” he says. “Definitely not. Who’s cooking?” 

“You, Hardison,” Eliot says dryly. Hardison shoots Parker a _look_. 

“Weren’t you supposed to be playing lookout?” he asks her. 

“I found a website that randomly generates pictures of kittens,” Parker says, pointing at the computer in her lap. It shouldn’t be the answer to that question, but clearly is. 

“Goddammit,” Hardison sighs. Eliot walks up beside him and squints down at the pan skeptically. 

“What are you making?” he asks. 

“Regret, at the moment,” Hardison says. Eliot gives him a dubious look, folding his arms. 

“That’s not edible, Hardison,” he says. 

“It’s ravioli. Can we just pretend it was Pop-Tarts again and be done with it?” Hardison says resignedly. 

“No,” Eliot says. He sticks a fork in one of said ravioli. 

“Please don’t actually taste this,” Hardison says. Eliot ignores him and sticks the fork in his mouth. “Thank you for completely failing to respect my wishes, Eliot.” 

“Hm,” Eliot says. 

“Is it good?” Parker asks, tilting her head. 

“Why would you ask him that?” Hardison says. 

“Have you literally never heard of tarragon?” Eliot says. 

“I have not, in fact,” Hardison says. “I’m gonna assume it’s a seasoning or something.” 

“Herb.” Eliot takes another bite and chews it over. “Hm.” 

“Do we _have_ tarragon?” Hardison says. Eliot gives him an offended look. 

“What kind of kitchen do you think this is?” he says. “Of course we have goddamn _tarragon_.” 

“So I should go find it?” Hardison asks. “Or should we just dump this in the garbage disposal and pretend it never happened.” 

“You should go find it,” Eliot says. “It tastes okay, just it could use tarragon. And maybe a bit more salt.” 

“I literally cannot believe you didn’t go for the garbage disposal option,” Hardison says, heading to the pantry. Eliot rolls his eyes and stirs the pan. 

“Unless it’s secretly made of Pop-Tarts, it’s fine,” he says. 

“. . . do they make Pop-Tarts like that?” Parker says. 

“I refuse to find out,” Eliot says. 

“I mean, you could say a Pop-Tart is a _kind_ of ravioli . . .” Hardison says, and Eliot gives him an exasperated look. 

“You could also sleep on the couch tonight,” he says. 

“Wow, _rude_.” 

.

.

.

They eat ravioli for dinner and make some more plans. They're good plans. The tarragon is also good. 

"How do you even know these things?" Hardison asks. Eliot shrugs and takes a bite of ravioli. 

"It's a very distinctive flavor profile," he says. 

.

.

.

"We're getting down to the wire," Parker says. 

"Metaphorically or literally?" Hardison asks, eyeing her harness warily. 

"Yes." 

.

.

.

"Dammit, Hardison." 

"Look, this one is not on me!" Hardison says defensively. "I don't control the post office!” 

"Do you think it's too late to register more people to vote?" Parker says, eyeing their mailbox suspiciously. “Or get more mail-in ballots sent out?” 

"I mean, what state are we talking about?" Hardison says. 

"Whichever ones we can," Parker says. Hardison looks at Eliot, Eliot looks back at him, and they both shrug. 

"Any state you want," Hardison says. 

.

.

.

“So . . . gonna let me in the kitchen today?” Hardison asks, leaning over the kitchen island. “I promise not to abuse the tarragon.” 

“You can help,” Eliot says grudgingly, and Parker perks up and pops up behind him. 

“Me too?” she asks hopefully. “I want to help!” 

“Yeah, okay,” Eliot says with a sigh, then points at them with his knife. “But if either of you tries to pull out anything frozen I _will_ make you both wait on the couch.” 

“Pop-Tarts don’t come in frozen,” Parker says. 

“Actually, some of them are pretty good that way,” Hardison says, and Eliot fixes them both with a _look_. 

“You two wanna cook, or you wanna give me an aneurysm?” he asks dubiously. 

“Okay, okay,” Hardison says, holding his hands up. Parker does the same thing. Eliot eyes them both for a moment longer, then turns back to the cutting board. 

“So . . . _which_ ones are good frozen?” Parker whispers to Hardison as soon as Eliot turns his back on them. 

“Ever had the s’mores kind?” 

“Ooo.” 

“I heard that, you two!” 

.

.

.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Parker says. They’re on the couch. Her head is on Hardison’s shoulder and her feet are tucked up on the cushions; she’s all curled in small on herself. “What if we do all this and all these other people do all this and it’s still not enough?” 

“It’ll be enough,” Hardison says firmly, putting a hand on one of hers and squeezing it. 

“But what if it’s _not_?” she says tightly. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, leaning towards her. “If it doesn’t work, we just try harder, okay?” 

“This might be the only chance we have, though,” Parker says, her mouth twisting in frustration. “This might be the only chance _anyone_ has.” 

“It’s not,” Hardison says, squeezing her hand again. “And even if it is, we can handle this, Parker. We’ve got it.” 

“I don’t feel like we’ve got it,” she murmurs, lips pressing into a thin line. “This isn’t like other jobs.” 

“No, it’s not,” Eliot agrees. “But Hardison’s right. We can handle this. You trust us, right?” 

“Yeah,” Parker says, looking at them as they look back at her. “Yeah, okay.” 

.

.

.

She always trusts them. 

.

.

.

Down to the wire. 

.

.

.

“This is taking too long,” Parker says tersely. They’re in the apartment. She’s staring intently at the map on the television. It’s mostly gray. 

“Are you gonna watch the whole thing?” Hardison says, looking at the TV over her shoulder. The map hasn’t changed in a while. “They might not even call it tonight. Hell, they probably won’t, all things considered.” 

“Don’t care,” Parker says bluntly, not looking away from the screen. Hardison glances at Eliot, and Eliot sighs. 

“Okay,” he says, reaching over the back of the couch to squeeze one of Parker’s shoulders. She doesn’t look back at him. “You want us to watch with you?” 

“You don’t have to,” Parker says. Hardison and Eliot glance at each other again, then both come around to the front of the couch and sit down on either side of her, just close enough to touch. Parker doesn’t look at either of them; just keeps staring intently at the map. 

“You know we did everything we could, right?” Hardison asks her. 

“You especially,” Eliot says. 

“I know,” Parker says, but she still doesn’t look away from the mostly-gray map, and it still doesn’t change. 

.

.

.

“Fucking— _Nevada_ , man. Can’t they count faster?!” 

“I want _everyone_ to count faster.” 

“The mail-in ballots—” 

“Yeah, he’s saying stop the count.” 

“ _Fuck_ him. I hope they count every last damn one.” 

.

.

.

"This is taking too long." 

"It'll take as long as it takes." 

.

.

.

“Wait, holy shit, is _Georgia_ going to go blue?” 

.

.

.

“Parker,” Eliot says, and shakes her awake. She startles upright on the couch, knocking the blanket on top of her to the floor. She didn’t fall asleep under it, but between Hardison and Eliot it was inevitably going to end up on her. 

“I wasn’t asleep!” she blurts, shoulders tense and eyes darting around the room in reflexive alarm. 

“Parker, they called Pennsylvania,” Eliot says, and she stills, and stares at him. “He lost. Bad.” 

“He did?” she says. 

“Yeah,” Hardison says, grinning at her. “He definitely did.” 

“Oh,” she says, her face lighting up as she looks at the television. “Oh!” 

She throws her arms around both of them, and they wrap theirs around her in return. She hides her face, and they both squeeze her tight. She squeezes back tighter. 

“I was scared,” she says roughly. 

“Yeah, us too,” Eliot says. “But it’s good. We did it.” 

“Well, us and seventy million other people,” Hardison says wryly, patting Parker’s back. “Which—holy shit, man, I cannot believe that many people came out. That’s amazing.” 

“It is!” Parker says, lifting her head to beam at them. “It’s amazing!” 

“For sure,” Hardison says, grinning back at her. "See? Told you it was handled." 

"You did," Parker says with a wider grin, and kisses him. He kisses her back. Eliot hums, and puts a hand on her back to stroke lightly. 

"He hasn't conceded yet, though," he says. 

"I hope he chokes on it," Parker says blissfully, then kisses him too. Hardison laughs. 

"Well, we can look forward to that," he says. 

"Definitely," Eliot says. 

"I want a clip of it," Parker says feelingly. "Like the frog Nazi." 

"That sounds great," Hardison says. "And if he _won't_ concede, we'll get a clip of them dragging him out of the White House." 

". . . oh, now I don't know which one I want," Parker says with a frown. Eliot snorts and Hardison laughs again. 

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he says, and she smiles at both of them. 

"We did good," she says. 

"We did," Eliot agrees with a nod. 

"Definitely," Hardison says. 

She smiles at them again, and they smile back at her, and the map on the TV says exactly what they wanted it to. 

It’s good, and they helped make it that way.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


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